Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  “So we are certain there was foul play?” Hutton said.

  “No doubt about it, sir.”

  Silence ensued.

  Simmons cleared his throat.

  When Hutton turned around, Simmons pointed to the desk. He held a laptop in one hand.

  “May I?”

  Hutton was amused at Simmons’ eagerness and extreme deference. But he would not let the agent see it. He nodded, then folded his arms and sat on the window sill.

  “What have you got?”

  Simmons flipped open the laptop and took a wireless mouse out of his jacket pocket. He began to lower himself into the director’s chair so he could use the mouse, then seemed to think the better of it. He walked over to a chest-high filing cabinet and manipulated the computer from that awkward height.

  “This is the footage from the stairwell leading to William Mahler’s apartment,” Simmons said.

  The silent, black and white video showed a female figure racing down the stairs. She stopped at the Mahlers’ back door as clouds of smoke seeped from the creases at its sides and base.

  “See, here,” Simmons said, “the woman bangs on the door and seems to try to open it with keys. But the keys fall and it looks like she tries to search for them with her foot. Meanwhile, she’s covering her nose and coughing. That quickly deteriorates into violent convulsions. Finally, she abandons the effort to open the door and flees down the stairs.”

  Simmons stopped the video.

  “That was one of the Mahlers’ maids,” he said. “She had the weekend off like all the others, but she’d decided not to go visit her family as she wasn’t feeling well enough to travel. She was the only other person we know of that was in the building at the time of the fire.”

  “A loyal servant; tried to save them,” Hutton said.

  “The funny thing is that she said she’d left the Mahlers’ apartment to go to her room less than half an hour before this scene took place.”

  “What’s so strange about that?”

  “There’s no footage of it.”

  Hutton raised an eyebrow.

  Simmons continued. “There are recordings of this maid going up and down the stairs three or four times earlier in the day. But there’s nothing showing her leaving the Mahlers’ apartment that one time before the start of the fire.”

  Simmons clicked to play another video. “Now, have a look at this, sir.”

  The screen showed nothing but the stairs.

  “Our guys examined the footage carefully.” Simmons sniffed with an air of satisfaction. “Just about half an hour before the fire, there’s a momentary blackout of the recording. Lasts just a fraction of a second. The same thing happens shortly before the maid ran down.”

  He stopped the video then showed two pictures of the stairwell, side by side, on his screen. Next, he pulled up a composite image showing one picture with its opacity reduced and overlaying the second picture.

  “What we discovered is that the scene from that short block of time and the view that the camera showed at all other times are different. It’s subtle, and you’d miss it if you weren’t looking as hard as we were. But the two are from slightly different angles. The camera pointing to the Mahlers’ door is fixed. These two images are supposed to align perfectly. But they don’t.”

  “Okay, so that suggests the perpetrator or perpetrators entered Mahler’s apartment through the back door and made sure there was no record of it,” Hutton said.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “But how did they even get to that camera to be able to tamper with it?”

  “Through the roof, we believe. The cameras on every other floor all checked out. Nothing was wrong with their footage. So entry from lower floors is ruled out. We asked Monaco to help us check the roof. What’s interesting is that the skylight on the room closest to the camera shows some fresh scratches to the weatherstripping. Granted, those marks could have been made by birds or vermin. But it could also have been our killer.”

  “What about the autopsy reports?”

  “They confirmed the causes of death that were originally suspected. The nurse OD’ed on a toxic mix of alcohol and heroin. The heroin, by the way, was so potent that it could have done him in all by itself. As for Mahler, there was some alcohol in his system, but nothing else was found as being contributory to his death other than carbon monoxide. Our guys said Monaco was relieved to hear that.”

  “I bet they were.” Hutton said.

  Simmons slipped the mouse into his pocket. He walked over to the desk and shut down the computer. He stood, facing Hutton, spine erect like a soldier reporting to his sergeant.

  “We asked our lab to review the samples from Mahler and dig deeper. They, too, reported death from carbon monoxide poisoning. But they found a couple of things puzzling.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, there was some soot in Mahler’s lungs. But the lab felt the distribution pattern was not right. For the amount of soot that would have been in the air, given the type of material that burned, there should have been much more soot, much deeper in his lungs.”

  “Interesting.”

  “They think Mahler actually died too early for Monaco’s smoke-inhalation theory to be true. They looked at the concentration of carbon monoxide in Mahler’s system. It was way beyond what it should have been, given the time between when the fire is estimated to have started and when it was put out.”

  “So the lab is saying that the carbon monoxide that killed Mahler appears not to have come from the fire?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “So it was somehow administered before the fire?”

  “The lab thinks that’s highly likely to have been the case.”

  Simmons picked up the laptop, folded it shut, and tucked it under his arm.

  “And there’s one other thing,” he said. “Mahler’s wife said there’s no way the nurse would have been smoking in the apartment. He loved his job. He’d started just a few months before and often said how thankful he was to be working there. He knew she didn’t let even Mahler, himself, smoke in the apartment. And he knew he would have been fired on the spot for smoking in there. Fran Mahler also said there was nothing to suggest that the nurse was depressed or suicidal.”

  Hutton stepped away from the window and settled into his seat. “Okay, so we have reason to believe these were homicides. What about suspects?”

  “As for the killer himself, or herself — can’t rule out that it was a ‘she,’ as you never know these days….” Simmons smiled at his political correctness, but getting no response, moved on quickly. “As for the actual killer, there are none. This was a professional who left no clues as to his or her identity.”

  The director nodded.

  “As for who put out the contract,” the agent said, “the field is still pretty much wide open.”

  “Narrow it down, Simmons.”

  “For starters, there’s Fran Mahler. She inherited practically everything. Mahler had a previous wife and two sons, but those boys didn’t survive childhood, and the first wife took sleeping pills to end her life over two decades ago. Fran Mahler is his second wife and they had one child. But that girl is estranged. Lives somewhere in Australia. Fran Mahler is in charge of the trust fund left to her.”

  Simmons paused and adjusted his tie. “We have some information that there was trouble in the Mahlers’ marriage. Reports of affairs. On both sides.”

  Hutton nodded.

  “And it seems there’s trouble on the horizon for the business, too. There’s talk of Fran Mahler filing a lawsuit to take control. Seems she ha
s ideas for the company to take bold, new initiatives.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “But there are other suspects. Mahler’s business partners — Daniel Greene and Henry Maitland.”

  “Where are you getting at with that line of inquiry?”

  “Greene was seen arguing with Mahler at a bar in Monaco. Happened just two days before Mahler was killed. Eyewitnesses say the fight was over some business interests in Canada.”

  The director thought he detected hesitation in Simmons’ voice. “But there’s a ‘but’?”

  “Yes, sir. Greene didn’t inherit anything from Mahler. In fact, it’s Maitland who took over from Mahler and is running the show now. So any motive on Greene’s part is unclear at the moment.”

  “From what I’ve heard from various sources,” Hutton said, “Maitland’s not much of a happy man these days.”

  “That’s what we’ve gathered, too, sir. Seems he’s struggling as the head of the company.”

  “Power comes with responsibilities, Simmons,” Hutton said, sitting deep into his chair and leaning his head on the headrest. “No one gets to enjoy the former without tending to the latter. Men like Mahler accept that; they fully embrace the responsibilities, down to every last minute, headache-inducing duty. That’s what makes them leaders. If Maitland took out Mahler in order to simply enjoy the status of being head honcho at Magrelma, then he’s a fool who didn’t pay attention to the warning to be careful about what you wish for.”

  “Yes, sir.” Simmons glanced at his notes. He coughed into his fist before continuing.

  “As for others…well, we’re checking out business competitors. And as for political enemies Mahler may have gained as a result of Magrelma’s rumored covert activities, so far, there’s no indication of involvement by such figures. But we’re leaving no stone unturned as far as that’s concerned.

  “This was a professional hit. Whoever ordered it had the means to hire an expert. Could very well have been some deposed dictator who squirreled away his country’s wealth and still bears a grudge.”

  “Good. Thank you, Simmons.” Hutton nodded with finality.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  With his face hidden from the director as he turned to leave, Simmons felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, and his lips parted in a broad grin. He could get used to playing in the big league like this.

  Chapter 15

  He had sent for Simmons that afternoon because he knew the Secretary of State would be at the White House later in the day, shortly after he was scheduled to brief the president on some matters.

  The FBI director was out of his meeting earlier than expected. He checked with the secretaries outside the Oval Office for some needless information. It bought him some time, but not enough. He felt ridiculous dallying about.

  Disappointed at not running into Angela Roseau, he walked down the corridor toward the exit. His gait was slow, but, still, he held his shoulders back, pushed out his chest, and kept his head up. The Army training had been deeply embedded into every fiber of his being all those decades ago and would never leave him.

  He heard her voice from behind a slightly ajar door. He smiled. By the time the door opened fully and she stepped out before him, his face was the usual stern mask he showed the world.

  She often wore an intimidating mask, too. But hers was a lovely face, he thought. Although the decades had broadened it, added wrinkles, and caused it to sag here and there, he still saw the beauty that had so often made him toss and turn at night, even as he lay in bed alongside Valerie.

  Their eyes met, and though he wanted to deny it, her sparkling baby blues made his pulse race.

  “Angela, we’re running late.” Kathy Wang, the infernal shadow, stepped out the door, clutching a notebook computer.

  “Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you,” Roseau said without breaking eye contact with Hutton.

  He told her all he had learned about Mahler’s death. She tilted her head and listened with an intent look on her face. This time, though, there was no more of that hint of a slip as at the State Dinner, when she had been caught completely off guard.

  “I trust that we’ll pursue this until we find whoever is responsible,” she said.

  “Absolutely.”

  She touched him lightly on his upper arm.

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  “He was a good man, Angela,” Hutton said. He believed it to be true, to a certain extent, but he said it mostly because he knew it would please her to hear it. “He deserves every effort we can make to find his killer. And we will. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Chapter 16

  I had no idea how long the Field Naturalists meeting would be. As I would have a long walk back home on an unlit road, I decided to take a room for the night just in case the meeting ran late.

  Since settling into Syron Lake, I had discovered that the motel belonged to Mayor Demetriou. I wasn’t particularly eager to give him my business. But there was no avoiding it. The only other accommodation was at a much more expensive three-story hotel at the far edge of town. It was also owned by the mayor, who held the franchise for the coffee chain and the burger joint, and was also behind Tito’s, the only decent restaurant in town.

  “I’m sorry but we’re all booked up,” the young man at the front desk said. “There’s a wedding on this weekend and their guests have taken all the rooms.”

  Change of plans, then. I would go to the Moose Lodge just to find the member who was running for mayor and skip the meeting itself.

  By the time I arrived at the squat, brown building, it was well past eight and I was beginning to feel the effects of my lack of sleep over the previous twenty-four hours.

  “Are you the young lady that called Gladys, our secretary, earlier today?” the frail, sharp-faced woman who sat at a table near the entrance said. Her hands and head seemed to shake involuntarily.

  “Yes. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for the meeting.”

  “I knew it had to be you. We don’t get too many people your age coming to our meetings. But, then again, not too many young folks live in this town.”

  “Your secretary mentioned a board member named Osgood. May I speak with him, please?”

  “Would you like to sign up for our club?” the woman said. “It’s only twenty dollars for the year. And we have such a good time. It’s all nice people. Oh, I’m sure they’ll like you. We put on such a nice pot-luck dinner every three months. You should see the feast!”

  “Is Osgood here tonight?”

  “And they put on really good lectures,” the woman said. “Sometimes they get a retired professor or somebody like that from out of town to come speak. Really interesting. But they couldn’t get anybody this month. So it’s just the police coming in tonight to speak about the citizens on patrol program. Trying to rope more of us old fogies in to help them out, you know.”

  There was clearly a problem here. My words didn’t seem to be getting through.

  “Excuse me,” I said, louder. “I would—”

  “Oh, looks like I don’t have any membership forms out here.” The woman sifted through the magazines, newsletters, and pamphlets that littered her table. “Silly me. Hold on a while, dear. I’ll be right back.”

  She got up, shuffled down the corridor, opened a door and disappeared behind it.

  I stepped away from the table and looked around. I had never been inside this building before. A long hallway with at least a dozen doors extended on either side of me. Behind which door would I find the meeting?

  The front door swung open and the dark material of an officer’s unifor
m came into view. I turned so that my back was to him. I wandered off slightly to the right, and pretended to look at the large, framed photographs of past Moose Lodge presidents.

  Since I had left behind those unpleasant days as a rookie crime reporter for The Sentinel, I had studiously avoided cops. But it was the mayor’s virtual threat earlier in the day to see to it that I’d be arrested for trespassing that made me want to be invisible to this badge-wearer now.

  “Excuse me.” The voice had all the masculinity and confidence I’d found typical in those who carried a gun. “Can you tell where I’ll find the Field Naturalists meeting?”

  “Sorry, I’m not with the group.” I didn’t turn around.

  “You have any idea, at least, if the meeting is still on in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that ‘Yes’ as in you do know, or ‘Yes’ meaning it’s still on.”

  “Both.”

  I looked at the reflection of his bearded face in the glass of the framed photograph before me. The smile on his lips was matched by the look in his eyes. I was wearing fitted jeans and a black bomber jacket, and his gaze was angled to just below the hem of my jacket, right smack on my derrière. Typical cop, I thought.

  He was suddenly beside me.

  “You’re new in town, aren’t you?”

  He was tall and muscular. He had a head of luxurious, auburn hair and a short-cropped beard which seemed oddly familiar.

  My mind flashed back to the collision earlier in the day. The image of the cell phone crashing to the pavement made me cringe. I made no reply. I shrugged and walked back toward the table.

  He followed me.

  “Detective Sergeant Paul Parker.” He held out his hand. “I think we may have met this morning.”

  I had already picked up a pamphlet. I stared at it, trying to ignore the extended hand.

  The silence was beginning to get awkward when a nearby door swung open.